And the fluttering chaos in my chest didn't calm at all.
Ashlyn and I walked to the room, the same as yesterday where I got fitted for my dress, the same place that could've passed for the dressing quarters of a royal court.
Tall antique mirrors lined the marbled walls, soft golden lighting danced on the edges of white velvet chairs, and staff moved with graceful precision around racks of dresses and trays of gemstones and brushes like this was routine. Like transforming women into goddesses was just another Tuesday.
And waiting like a deity among mortals was the French designer from the night before, the one who'd gasped dramatically when he first saw me.
"Ahhh, la déesse de guerre returns," he cooed, clasping his hands together as he floated toward me. "And my fiery duchess," he added, turning to Ashlyn with a kiss to the air near both her cheeks.
